The chance of a lifetime
by MagnusScriptor
Summary: When one man is given everything he wants, what happens will affect the fate of his universe. This is the story of such a man.


_Receiving incoming transmission . . ._

**Magnus Scriptor:** Good day, gentlemen, ladies. Welcome to my latest venture. It's not quite what any returning readers would expect. This will be a story of some fair length, but I am minimizing action and mythological appearances . . . at least for now. As a side project, I'm also planning on starting a "Duels" project, to be classified in Miscellaneous. Simply put, I'll do match-ups from anywhere you'd like me to draw characters (I'm accepting any requests; but make sure I can find out what your requested characters can do, at least a Wikipedia article or something), and that'll be whatever you like. Of course, I'll be pairing up my own characters if there are no requests. Oh yes, and I know this initial offering is rather short, and seems somewhat rushed. Don't worry, the best stuff is coming a little later on. And anyone who can guess what the meaning of Darthon's name is (and why) can have pretty much anything they want that I can provide. Good luck, and enjoy.

_Transmission terminated_

Frank Darthon downed another drink and swore heartily, the epithet startling the parents of a nearby family eating their lunch, who quickly embarked on whispered lectures to their children on how they must _never_ say such a word. Darthon grinned sardonically, and ordered another Pyren Forbeer. "Can't forbear from having Forbeers! Proclaimed a line of text under the smiling picture of a pretty teenage girl, which adorned the counter behind the bar. Darthon found its location almost as offensive as the two puns it contained. Darthon had learned from the kid of an old friend that it was originally called "Forbeer" because of some Greek word or something meaning "strong," or possibly "affordable to a luckless Confederacy prospector who hadn't found anything worth finding in weeks." Darthon winced at the thought; he had promised his wife so many times that he could provide, and he still knew she was slipping money from her family fortune into his wallet at night. Darthon had his pride, sometimes it was all he had. And he detested the thought of a man living off of his wife, and couldn't stand the conclusions that some people might draw about himself. "Though of course," he reflected quietly to himself, "I don't have many friends to lose." That same sardonic smile twisted his lips again. One of his girlfriends from a few years ago had sworn that she could pick his smile out from a million others every time, as belonging to him alone. "Maybe that was why I haven't broken yet," figured Darthon, "After a week without a contract most guys just finish it with a bullet. If they can afford it. I couldn't; it's all I can do to get fresh clothes as often as I need them. Hell, those kids shouldn't be taught not to say those words; they ought to be taught how to live so they never have to use them, so they're never a washed up has-been with a varsity jacket and shit-else to his name but a rich wife and a couple of brats."

Darthon's reflections were cut off as the bartender tapped his elbow. "Just letting you know I'm cutting you off, sir," he said politely. Darthon grumbled something under his breath, causing the nearby parents to lunge forward, their hands covering their babes' ears. "Relax!" barked Darthon, suddenly no longer cynically amused. "I'm going, okay?" The wife looked at her young husband, who seemed to be searching for an answer that didn't involve wetting his silk-polymer pants. Darthon, like most prospectors, was a burly guy, and the young man was far out of his weight class. Also, everything about his persona said: "I earn more money than you make in a year by snapping my fingers," which led Darthon to classify him, with no little accuracy, as one of the spineless men of words delicately referred to as "pussies." The man flinched as Darthon leaned an inch closer, and looked like he was resigning his soul to death. Darthon looked straight into his scared blue eyes, and then turned away. He left the bar, and went back into the hotel proper. A bum lead had turned up, and he was stuck on the wrong side of Nova Terra, with no liquid assets except the ones he had just drunk. And Darthon was groaning to himself as he knew what would happen next. He would call his wife, dear Leona, and she would tell him about some little bits of money she "had saved up for just this situation." Darthon was not so far gone that he did not keep track of his money, and he knew where it came from. He hated the lies only a little less than he hated the truth of his situation.

"Fuck it," muttered Darthon, and grabbed the phone from his vest pocket, pressing his home number.

"Yes dear?" answered Leona. Darthon had never had to call twice when he needed something. But damned if he knew how she did it.

"There's no contract, and I don't have the money to refuel the Enovy to get back."

"Oh no, that's too bad. How much do you have on you?"

"Zero."

"How much do you need? I saved some money from last time, it should be enough."

"I need at least a hundred. Fuel's gotten really expensive these days. Hang on, there's an incoming call." Darthon was sure that his surprise was echoed by his wife, and he quickly pressed the button to put her on hold so he could talk to the caller.

"Frank Darthon?" The voice was deep, and had a chilling quality to it.

"Speaking." Darthon kept his voice cool.

"I have a contract for you. The fuel in your vessel should be adequate for you to go there immediately."

"Where?"

"The nearby gas giant RH-1 contains traces of Ignis gasses, which are usually accompanied by Solaris gasses. As I'm sure you could testify, any new discovery of Solaris would be highly beneficial to the Explorer's sponsor, and to the explorer." Darthon got the hint.

"I'll be asking for my usual fee plus a percentage."

"Of course. Everything shall be arranged. But you must hurry; some other Explorers may have been contracted with the same end in mind."

"Of course. Who shall I claim any Solaris gasses for?"

"The Addams Corporation."

"Okay then. I'm going."

"Good. We will contact you as soon as you reach the planet."

"All right. Bye."

"Good luck." Darthon switched back to his wife.

"What's up?" she asked. Though her voice was calm, Darthon imagined her practically on the edge of her seat with anticipation.

"New contract, should pay very well. Look up the Addams Corporation, I'm doing work for them now. Never mind about the money; I'll handle things. Got to run, see you later."

"Uh, okay," said Leona, and Darthon cut her off, running back to his ship. The strong drinks were beginning to take their toll on him, but he was determined not to lose a single moment. Darthon fumbled in his pocket for the packet of pills he knew would help cancel out the drums pounding in his head. He ripped it open and crunched the pills in his mouth.

Several minutes later, Frank Darthon was at the controls of his Starcharter 5, the Envoy. His headache forgotten, most of the alcohol neutralized, his hands were dancing across the controls, setting his course. Darthon knew that he had to make his best speed, and that he didn't have much fuel left, so he switched the controls to manual, brought the repulsors online, and set a course straight to RH-1, passing just above the asteroid belt.

The Veiled Belt had existed in this sector of space as far back as anyone had records. However, local legend had weaved a story of gods and goddesses locked in epic conflict with monsters, and that the Veiled Belt was all that remained of their battleground. More level-headed scientists pronounced it a phenomenon of nature, most likely left-over space rock from the Big Bang. Whatever it was, its direction was somewhat erratic, due to the varying sizes of the rocks it contained. While some could have been held in the palm of Darthon's hand, others dwarfed the town he had been born in. Moreover, the larger rocks were continually breaking down due to the stress generated by their speed, so the Belt changed slightly every year. As such, the starcharters generally agreed that it be avoided altogether. Darthon had no intention of tempting fate by trying to go through; though he had seen a holo-vid of a young pilot actually pulling it off in a V-77 Hummingbird, but he was going to cut it as close as possible to shorten the length of his trip. Darthon let the computer take over the vessel, and sank back in his Trichan-upholstered chair, a thirtieth birthday present from his wife. He poked at a rip that was beginning to open in one of the armrests. "The years haven't been kind to you," Darthon said to the chair. It was a habit of his, during the long hours of space travel, to carry on conversations with his chair. He said it kept him from going insane with boredom, though some would have retorted it was merely indicative that he was already around the bend. Darthon's eyes suddenly narrowed, and he looked at his right hand as it prodded the chair. "They haven't been kind to me either," he muttered, as the reality of his age sank in. All of his knuckles were bruised, and he was missing part of the tip of his little finger. An accident when he was just twenty. "Just twenty? Hell, it's been almost two decades since then. But I've got a contract, things are going to be fine." Darthon finished reassuring himself, and tried to get a few minutes sleep. But one thought followed him almost into the depths of his slumber: "But what if it's not?"


End file.
